


Unwritten Memoirs

by Fyliwion



Series: Love Letters [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bodice-Ripper, Corsetry, Crossdressing, Explicit Sexual Content, Glove porn, Hand Kink, Holmes is Oblivious, It's For a Case, Love Letters, M/M, Oral Sex, Period Typical Attitudes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Retired Holmes, Smut, Strong Language, Sussex, UST, Unwritten Cases, Watson Writes Porn, Watson's Tin Box, Watson's Tin Box is NSFW
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-13 02:47:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3364856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyliwion/pseuds/Fyliwion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He left him a collection of letters and stories, things that had never meant to see the light of day and that could have been used as no greater blackmail. They were the stories Watson always wished to publish, but knew he never could.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Afterwards

_I watched him across from me on his divan of pillows._

_He's immersed in a new case, only hours after the current one has come to a close, we’re still miles from London in an inn, and now he's left me to my own thoughts and business._

_I wonder if the man has any idea what his languid pose does to me._

_...I think not or perhaps he would have long since refrained. Laid out on a nest of cushions, his hair hanging in his face after hours of running and abuse, wrapped in his nightshirt and dressing gown that shows a length of leg that should be made illegal. Is illegal I suppose, in that the thoughts I entertain myself certainly are. God knows what Lestrade would make of the things I wish to do upon seeing him stretched out so pornographically._

_Certainly something one friend should not imagine of another man._

_Holmes never looks up. He doesn't glance away from his page at all. On the contrary he does nothing but take one of his his long fingers to push another sheet of paper across the page, and he shifts, causing a shoulder of the dressing gown to slip down his arm and show a thin expanse of pale neck bared for me._

_We are alone on this floor. The inn keeper informed us that he must visit his sister and would not be back until morning, and the other guests had returned from their holidays. No one is there to hear, or question-- not that they would after the commotions Holmes caused the past several days._

_I find myself licking my lips. I find my own arousal insatiable at the knowledge any act would be for the taking and no one there to know. I find my own worries and fears laid bare and can no longer help myself._

_I stand up and I lean over him to glance at his notes. At first it seems innocent enough, though I watch his reaction at my proximity. I see the goosebumps raise, and the flutter of his pulse speed up at the crease of his neck. Carefully, with a patience that should be granted sainthood, I let my hand fall to run along his arm and up to rest along that open crescent at his neck's juncture._

_This time he goes still, and I see the slightest tremble of his fingers._

_It is the first time I have truly seen him react to me in such a way. A glimpse that there is more behind his cold facade, and as I let my thumb run in small circles at the pulse I feel it quicken further._

_“John-”_

_His voice is breathy, and I revel that he seems uncertain what to say. Rather, he holds onto the book as I lower myself and pause with my lips hovering over his pulse._

_“Please God Holmes, tell me I might... that I....”_

_“God yes.”_

_I press a kiss, my whiskers brushing the soft skin of his cheek, barely covered in a light stubble. I heard him groan and I rewarded it with a second, a third--_

_The book drops with a clatter and I pay it no mind. Rather I lower myself to cover him, push back the dressing gown to find Holmes nearly as aroused as myself. I slipped my hands down to push his arms back and pinned him on his pillows. He thrust against me, eyes shot wide and my name once more on his lips as I pushed my leg between his thigh._

_How many times did I imagine this? How many times did I want nothing more than to take him as he lay strewn like a harem boy? Like a mockery of the Queen of Sheba in nothing but his worn thin dressing gown?_

_He writhed with each touch, his nightshirt rising to show no further undergarments. He is straight and long; built like the rest of him. I allowed it to brush against me causing him to cry out and felt a flush of joy that I could do that so easily and with so little work._

_That I could pull him away from a case so that it was nothing but mine and our heavenly father's that he cried out?_

_The nightshirt was pulled away, and my lips explored, marking every inch that would not be seen and my own nightshirt sliding up as I seated myself on top of him. His blue eyes were blown wide, and every armor he wore shattered in front of me to reveal a depth of emotion I had never thought could belong to man I had called so many injustices where the heart was involved._

_I debated. Riding him, fucking him, flipping him over and proving once in for all that my madcap detective was as much mine as I was his, but instead I let go of his wrists to slide down. I let my tongue swirl around the tip, pulling it deeper within my lips as I took him into my throat like I had practice back in my time abroad. Pride flooding through me that I could cause Holmes to cry out with intelligible words._

_That I could lay such a mind to waste as he tossed beneath me._

_I stopped shy of him reaching release. I waited as he grabbed my shoulders, his nails sure to leave marks the next day. As he pulled me up I knew I should tell him, knew that I should say just how far flung my emotions for him have gone._

_As his lips captured mine let him know that I truly, excruciatingly, lo-_

* * *

 

The soft sound of paper filled the once silent room, sheaves falling in a waterfall from shaking hands.

The pages cracked as they brushed the floor, brittle from years, even so kept to safely in a locked box and again in their safety deposit box where even he could never have reached them. Not without effort that he would never have put in unless a matter of life in death.

At that moment Sherlock Holmes wished he had.

“My Watson… My dear, dear Watson.”

His voice cracked, and he felt his heart shatter in his chest.  

 


	2. Youth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I could nearly wrap my fingers around Holmes' waist. The corset slender and reminding me the man rarely ate enough. He made a stunning woman, dressed in Parisian silks, and a flush upon his cheeks from having solved a case."_

It sits anathema in the room.

The silver glints and reflects, shining in the morning sun, and mocking him as he sits at the table with his tea and toast. Holmes' eyes flicker towards it, even when he would prefer to throw the entire thing out.

But curiosity had always been the centerfold of what made Sherlock Holmes. He had never been good at letting things lie when there was a mystery to unfurl. Like Pandora's box, once opened, he found such things could not be unseen.

And he is alone for the day, the housekeeper gone to visit relatives and no company expected but his own.

Still he waits. Waits until breakfast has been finished, until the sun rises further in the sky and he has wrapped himself in the worn grey dressing gown that has seen too many years.

Long trembling fingers flip open the lock, the smell of parchment filling his senses, and perhaps it is nothing but his imagination, but a hint of gunpowder and soap that wrapped around him.

A blanket, enveloping him as he takes another page.

* * *

 

_He seeks to drive me mad._

_For two weeks now he has gone out, and returned in every disguise under the sun. I have seen him dressed as an actor, player, musician, peddler, grandfather, peer, beggar, and the list would go on a mile. Until now I have seen no reason to ask or intervene, except I cannot help but worry at the time it is taking him for a single case._

_I wonder if perhaps I should intercede, or see if the man is in need of assistance. I am sure he has his reasons for not inviting me along, but I find myself worry as another bout of disguises are implemented._

_But this evening he had gone further than I imagined._

_I have seen Holmes dress as a woman before, that in itself was not unusual. He has donned the garments of prostitutes, charwoman, and even the occasional governess. His looks were slender enough, and the youth  in his face striking enough to pass without much thought. Holmes makes a handsome woman, I had thought this before, but nothing prepared for the woman who strolled into our sitting room._

_A young woman with a red flush upon her cheeks and her gloved hands tightening upon a clutch. She was dressed in a green silken dress that clung to her hips and waists, and gathered along the back to provide an elegant train that pooled about her feet.  She was the height of sophistication, and her eyes glowed with joy and intelligence._

_“I have him Watson! I shall send the case over in the morning, but it is impossible that Lord Bedford took the money. Rather his wife is quite open lipped in the company of another lady,” his eyes were laughing and he spun about like a young girl of twenty._

_I found myself hard instantaneously._

_“Is... is that so Holmes?” I managed to cough out through my brand. I thanked god for the nightcap I had poured myself  while thinking before his entrance._

_Holmes sat with little aplomb, his petticoats riding high to reveal silk stockings like those of a French Mademoiselle. My eyes flickered back to his waist, small and cinched, tiny enough my hands should fit comfortably on either side, and furthering my theory Holmes did not eat enough._

_The breasts were non-existent, but the cinching gave him an hourglass, and at that moment I wished nothing more than to see the layers that lay beneath. I felt my blood pound in my veins at the idea of unlacing the corset below, of flipping up the petticoats higher._

_I wondered, given the rest of the garments looked Parisian, if the bloomers too were cut in such a fashion. If I should slip a hand up and find them open at the top. If he'd have drawers underneath, or if I should find his cock immediately upon the easy entrance._

_His eyes flickered to mine, and for a moment I thought to catch a glimpse of something before he held up his hand, “A glass of brandy perhaps? For celebration?”_

_Did he know what he did to me?_

_I obliged, holding up my own glass in celebration as I watched him wet his lips with the substance. He had not readjusted his skirts, indeed the petticoats had risen higher revealing a hint of lace from bloomers. I had been right in thinking French then._

_I found myself laughing upon a sudden realization._

_“Yes Watson?” He looked perturbed by my sudden laughter._

_I debated telling him, but he was looking at me expectantly,”Truly Holmes, you must have been the best dressed lady at the ball. I cannot say I am a connoisseur of woman's clothing, but I cannot remember seeing so much lace in one setting.”_

_I could hardly voice the other thoughts going through my head._

_The flush that ran through his cheeks was complementary to the outfit, “Lady Bedford spent much of her time abroad, and will not give the time to a woman poorly dressed. It was necessary to-”_

_“Yes and Lady Bedford was examining your knickers was she?”_

_My tongue had run away with me, and it proved the wrong thing to say. Holmes quickly brushed down his petticoats and stood looking further flushed, “You know that the details are what makes a proper disguise Watson. It is the details that gets our perpetrators caught. Knickers, corsetry, how women abide such contraptions I can hardly say, but it would not have suited to be called out as a man. My height and voice were already against me and I--”_

_“Calm down Holmes!” He'd worked him up into a stir, the idiotic man, “You make a beautiful woman. Stunning really, with nothing to worry about I assure you. I was simply surprised at the measures you took. I hadn't thought you to spend the money on such expensive underthings when a suitable pair of cotton ones would likely go unseen._

_Unless he had meant them to be seen._

_Meeting his eyes I wondered._

_I saw a flicker of something and wondered how much of the strewn petticoats were on purpose. That the leg with the delicate stockings had been crossed with a purpose. When did Holmes do anything without a precise meaning in his actions._

_“Beautiful Watson?” He sounded coy, like any woman one might meet at a social, but in a voice that made my already burgeoning problem impossible to ignore._

_“Fishing for compliments Holmes? I assure you, many a woman would be jealous. I should not have recognized it as you at first, were it not unlikely any young woman would dance about our sitting room rambling in rapture over the possibility of murder.”_

_“Theft Watson.”_

_“Still,” it seemed to pacify him, but I thought it was not enough. Rather I rose and caught his hand. Long fingers wrapped in a matching green silk with small covered buttons at his wrist. Musician hands that when covered in such delicate fabrics could have easily been mistaken for a woman's. I brushed a chaste kiss along his knuckles, glancing upward to catch his expression._

_What I had not expected were the blown pupils staring back at me. The reddened cheeks, the pursed lips, and the heaving chest that was impossible to hide with so much of it exposed and a corset forbidding proper breaths._

_Indeed, I kept a hold on the hand as I could visibly see his pulse rise up and his breath catch. His dark eyes trained on me, and after a momentary thought I raised his hand again, this time turning his hand over to slowly unbutton them at the wrist. His pulse fluttered at the action under my fingers, and I gently moved back the fabric to press a kiss against the skin._

_“Watson,” he said, his voice breathy and I worried for a moment he might faint._

_I ran my thumb over the juncture of the wrist, pushing back the green silk and pressing another kiss against his palm. Then, with the fingers still caught in the fabric, opened my lips slightly with a far more wanton kiss in the center. My tongue mapping out across his life line, tracing the grove, and tasting the faint hint of Holmes lingering there._

_It was such a risk, but still a small thing. I prayed Holmes would be reciprocal and if not he might simply brush the entire thing aside. Blame the dress, the silks, my own poorly treated cock that had not had its fill of late._

_But he said nothing, and his breathing became more labored. The glove dropped between us and I grabbed his wrist looking up to his face to see pure, undiluted want. After a moment, neither of us sure what action we should take he held up his other hand, “I... I may need your assistance with this one as well,” he said tilting his head toward the hand._

_I obliged, taking my time and allowing myself a bit more liberty. I drew his fingers between my lips, and allowed my tongue to wrap around them. I heard him give a soft muffled cry, and by the time I finished he was leaning against the chaise._

_Completely ravished for all I had done nothing but removed a pair of gloves..._

* * *

 

The sun was reaching higher and Holmes set the paper back upon the desk. There was another two, three pages of manuscript for the story Watson had titled, _The Woman in Green_ , but he found he could read no more.

His ran over the words, so unerring in their type, and wondering when Watson would have written it. Had he been in the sitting room? Had he been at his desk while Holmes conducted another of his experiments? Had Holmes sat beside him, so caught up in his own thoughts he never noticed what it was Watson penned?

The sound of falling metal echoed through the room. The soft sound of the locking mechanism closing in place.

The parchment, abandoned on the table, waiting for the sun to fall.

 


	3. Jeune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He continues reading, only once night has fallen and the shadows are there to hide his face.

Night falls.

With the sun gone, and the moon a crescent, the parchment seems less dangerous than before. It waits and collects the shadows across it’s words, until Holmes finds himself lifting the pages in the safety of the gaslight.

No one left in the household to see him read the condemning text.

Still the parchment shakes under his fingers.

* * *

 

_He stands there looking at me with cerulean eyes, and his chest still heaving. I give over temptation, allowing my hand to rest against the corseted waist, and feel a thrill at the fact I can feel his heart fluttering beneath._

_“Watson,” he says and I debate what action I should take. There is a part of me that wishes to push him back, to push up the petticoats, and to take him fully dressed over my writing desk._

_Instead I feel his hand guide mine, and he turns to settle my fingers along the buttons that extend up along the back._

_“I believe I am in need of assistance,” he said as I wondered how he had managed them in the first place._

_As eager as I was I took my time. Each button revealing another hint of fabric underneath, and- god how many layers did the man have?_

_I allowed my fingers to draw up along the channels where no boning lay, and watch as the goosebumps rose at the bottom of his neck. As the last button opened, I spread the fabric and loosened the ties along the bustles so the gown might fall from his shoulders._

_The green silk pooled at his feet, and we pushed it away with little care. Beneath lay a white lace chemise with lace petticoats, layers of fabric that looked like frothed cream, and floated about his legs._

_His fingers moved to unbutton the top garment, but I brushed them aside. He may have been the one to begin this, but I planned to finish it. I watched as the while cotton opened beneath my hands, and the petticoats fall in froths of lace around his feet._

_Left in the remnants of his garments, he was now fit more for the windows of Montmartre, rather than a setting room in the heart of London._

_The corset was petite and delicate. Carefully crafted of cream silk, and perfectly fitted for his curvature. My hands brushed along the side and he let out a small huff of breath at the action. I suspect he enjoyed it, must have for the laces were so tightly done I should have lectured him were he a woman. Perhaps it was the danger in not quite a full breath, the challenge, the knowledge that here was one more thing that could stop him and he could overcome. ._

_His stockings went up past his knees so the knickers hid the tops. I glanced down, and felt a smirk of satisfaction that I was proven right. French style, and to my joy the tip of his cock peeked from the folds of the open hole. I slipped my hand down, and the slightest brush parted the slit in the fabric completely as his length slipped through and stood firmly to attention._

_Long, slim, and ready given the dampness ofnthe fabric._

_“Already wanting are you?” I murmured into his ear, one hand at his waist and the other between his legs. The confinement keeping him from backing away, or doing much of anything beyond leaning towards me._

_“I have been thinking of you catching me since I put on this infernal garment,” he said, the words barely audible from his inability to catch his breath._

_“I rather like you in this garment,” my hand wrapped around his cock, and I ran my thumb from tip to base as he shuddered in my arms. “Like unwrapping a present.”_

_I could feel him trembling in my arms, and I continued slow ministrations, milking him as he uttered small keening noises in my ear. When I removed my hand, just as I felt him beginning to reach the brink, he let out a small cry and I wrapped my arms around him instead, turning him around so he might be bent over the chaise._

_I ran my fingers over the laces of the corset, and debated but saw him shake his head._

_“Leave it,” he muttered. “I… Watson… I haven’t the patience... please-”_

_In all my thoughts I had never imagined it going quite like this._

_Once more I parted the fabric, running my hand along his smooth arse, and my fingers teasing at the hole. I realized immediately I would need something further, and reached for a jar of lamp oil that was just within reach. Crude, but not dangerous._

_Neither of us were in a mind to care._

_I unbuttoned my own trousers, shifting my drawers to free my own pulsing cock. I slipped the oil over my fingers before submerging them into Holmes’ hole and listening to him give a soft cry._

_Thank God Mrs. Hudson had left that evening for a friends or I fear we should have been found before we ever began from the sounds that wrenched themselves from his throat._

_My fingers dug into the boning, tightening around his cinched waist and my breath coming hard as I lined myself up behind him. He pressed back against me and it was all I could do not to simply sink in._

_“Patience Holmes.”_

_“Damn you and your patience. Watson-” his voice was stretched and his body shuddered beneath me._

_Still clothed I pushed in, he cried out once more, obviously it having been sometime since he indulged in such proclivities. He was tight, so much so and I wondered when was the last time he had given in to carnal desires. It would seem not since we had begun rooming together. He was not unfamiliar though, thank God, for I should not have wished his first time to be done so incongruously. His hips thrust back, his legs spread apart further and I could hear a rip from the bloomers that even with their entrance were not meant to be treated thusly._

_I took him into my hand, running once more along the length in time to my own rhythm. He cried out, my name a blur as I found myself biting into his shoulder to keep from yelling myself. He came as I did, both of us spent, and him sinking into me even as he found release. A mess we’d made, and I still trembling from the moment before._

_Yet I could feel him shaking  in my arms, and he weighed so little it was easy enough to catch him in my arms and lift him to the chaise. As he lay, working to catch his breath, I begin to untie his stays before slipping my hand over the busk to open the confining feature. He had not the energy to assist as I undressed him, letting the boning drop to the ground, the ties pool about him, and his ribs expand with the sudden incursion of air._

_The bloomers were ruined and I slipped those off with little protocol. The stockings I took more time with, slowly unrolling them over his leg and listening to is breath catch as it ran down his leg. If my hand lingered too long about his thigh, I heard no complaints._

_So it was I was left once more with Holmes as himself, a trace of makeup and a emerald about his neck as the only features that might have implied his earlier state of dress._

_My eyes scanned his figure, drowning in every inch of him, and my fingertips unable to hold back from running along the lines of his body. He smiled tiredly at me, and I bent over him to touch his cheek and catch his lips with my own._

_“Join me Watson?” I felt his finger catch a belt loop and tug at the tops of my trousers._

_“As you wish.”_

* * *

 

The case had slipped entirely from his recollection.

He’d had, on more than one occasion, worn woman’s garb and the undergarments that went with. The challenge was always inspiring, and he had made a rather handsome woman. Indeed, he’d used his own charms and found the deceit rather invigorating.  

Now it was foremost in his thoughts. He could remember the dress in crystalline detail, and more so the look in Watson’s eyes as he’d descended upon the flat. Decades gone, and he could still feel the glow from him, the heat that rose to his Boswell's cheeks, and the consideration of what might come should he reach out and take what was hovering before him.

Reading the hesitation, the fear, the knowledge of what he’d lose if it his fingers slipped over John’s cheek, and the moment shattered.

His deductions had no always been right, no matter what the readers of the Strand believed. On the contrary, when he was wrong the end too often ended in naught but tragedy.

Holmes took the papers, words he’d never have dared to write down outside his inner thoughts, and settled them back into their home. He left the lid to the side, Watson’s writing visible at a glance, with the other sheaves stacked beside. Come morning perhaps he would thumb through another, perhaps risk one more glance at the waiting words.

Look through the evidence of how poor his deductions had been.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a casual WIP/Collection of Letters and cases with some longer/shorter depending. It's a side project I just started for Vday and had been bugging me as a plunny for a long while, but seemed to work well with the first posted today. 
> 
> Thanks to **Eialyne** for betaing!!


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